I was born a clean slate. An empty house. I watched everyone around me decorate my walls as they wanted to see them. They filled my cupboards and organized my closet for me, filling it with words and feelings I never understood. It got to the point where I felt more confused than comfortable, and so empty - even with all of these things that life had filled me with. So I got angry. I tried over, and over again to redecorate. I put up new wallpaper everyday, I burned rooms to the ground. I locked doors, I broke windows.

And then I found my people, and they told me that I was lovable even as this filthy, dark house. With paint peeling, and cobwebs in every corner.

I started to rebuild, I put up art that made me feel things. And wrote poetry on my walls. Every moment I spent with my new people, and myself, I was sent home with a new piece of my house to put together.

And now Im here. The floors need to be redone, and it still smells of smoke, but its mine. And who I am is not a ***** word, I wear all of my labels as a full, connected human being.